Not My Job
by frontyardgnome
Summary: Five times the A-Team members switched jobs...and the one person who didn't, mostly .
1. Con Artist

Easy job his ass.

Meet the contact, get the info, then get out. In the worst part of downtown you could be in at this time of day. With Face wearing fucking Armani like a blaring bull's eyes target. It had smelled bad from the start, which might have been why Hannibal had insisted he come. Big, black, 250+ pounds, he'd agreed if only because he didn't want to have to carry someone's skinny white ass out in pieces. Or worse, not at all.

True to his prediction, as Face finished with the contact and turned to give him a triumphant smile, the fading afternoon light was blocked. "What've we got here?"

He looked up and counted three, knew there had to be at least two more and possibly a car somewhere outside the alley. There weren't tattoos he recognized, but the fact that all three were black and sporting ink was an indicator of what they were dealing with. As were the low pants, sneakers, and obvious gun belts just far enough out for them to see.

At least Face had the sense to not go for his gun. "Nothing to see here, boys. In fact, we were just leaving, weren't we, BA?"

Thanks for dragging him into this, Face. He shot the conman a look, but if his size was intimidating it didn't show.

"Don't like no strangers on our side of the street," the leader stated, calm, cool, all of twenty in his blue knit cap and gold crucifix, if BA had to guess at age, and not showing anything but that street smart front in those hard brown eyes. "Especially ones who skulk around in the shadows."

Ok, so the man had a point. Not exactly a great impression, doing business out of a side entrance to a run down Chinese restaurant in the dilapidated part of town. "Look man, we don't want no trouble..."

A gun appeared in one of the flunkies hands and he put his hands up to show he wasn't going to fight. He glanced over for Face to do the same.

Face frowned at the weapon, hands rising slowly. "Now now, we don't need that. Why don't we just agree that we don't belong and we'll skedaddle out of here, let you guys get back to whatever it is you do."

The leader just smiled. "All right. Hands up, white boy. Let's see what you got."

With another glance at Face, he could have groaned when he realized the con had gone from 'talk your way out of it' to 'wait for an opening'. Not on his watch. No way was a boy from the ghettos getting mugged by some punk ass, barely-not-a-teen.

So even as Face tried one last time with, "Now now, no need to get physical. Why don't we just talk about this..." he caught the eye of the kid approaching him.

"I ain't appreciating this, man," he said slowly, scanning the boys once more up close. Low pants, obnoxious bling of a belt buckled, blue durag around the kid's mess of black hair. Wait, maybe he knew this. "Now why you harassin' a cuz out on the street?"

All eyes were on him, including a pair of very confused blue ones at the thick accent coming from his mouth. He glanced at Face and hoped the man caught on as the leader held out his hand for a halt. "What you talkin' about, boy?"

He snorted. "Don't you boy me, boy. Ain't got an issue with ya and don't want one or you mad doggin' around us, not while I'm courtin' in this buster." With that he reached over to shove Face's shoulder roughly, giving the conman a once over.

It had the effect he wanted, as in his peripherals he saw the boy on Face's side - a thin, reedy kid, about 17 and the only one with jeans that fit - lower his gun slightly. He kept most of his attention on the leader however, brown eyes to brown, locked in a silent assessment game that he hadn't played in years. Part of him wondered if he still knew how; the other part didn't even have to ask. Once you knew, you knew.

"You tellin' me you dogs in the mix?" the leader finally asked, fingers playing over a nine millimeter hilt, not quite believing.

He shrugged, moved to show off a bit of ink. They didn't need to know it was Ranger - hoped they didn't know. "Folk myself, only been out here a bit. Kickin' it with some homies over on nor' side, thought this part was safe, kid here-" He ignored the huff from Face at that. "Said he knew someone with some fine ass bud here, but didn't pan out. Sorry, man, didn't mean no dis."

"You step-trippin'?" And even Face had the sense to back up a step at the three sets of narrowed eyes on them.

But it didn't scare him. He'd been younger than this punk and it was all coming back. Combined with SERE training, Ranger school, being shot at, beaten, and bloodied, well, a banger with a gun wasn't a threat anymore. It was a sad reaction against something else that he would probably never have the power to fix. "Chill out, man. Ain't got no reason too." He gave a long hard stare at that. "Unless you got somethin' you want to start? Ain't been nothin' but fine with youse so far."

There was a long moment where shifting and cars passing were the only sound. Crucial seconds ticked by and he cursed himself up and down, trying to bring back the language that didn't seem to be enough. He could take a bullet no problem; they wouldn't shoot on him. But Face was another story... He caught the conman glancing at him but he ignored it, had to, to concentrate on the alpha dog here.

The leader gave him a long appraising look, thinking hard. "They let his kind in on the north side?" The gun jerked to point at Face.

He grinned. "Do when they the leader's new hen."

That got the reaction he wanted. The leader froze and glanced at Face before laughing, loudly, the sound echoing off the brick. "Your man got shit taste!"

He met that with a shrug. "What can ya do?"

The guns were lowered however and the leader hesitantly held out a fist, bumping knuckles like a pro. "Wouldn't want to kill your man's fun, so we'll let it slide this time, since we ain't got problems with north side. But-" And this came with a look that was more serious than should be on a young man's face. "Don't come around here again to do business without shoutin' at us first. I don't want to have to cap a couple of cuzzes for oversteppin' their turf, man. Wear your flags next time, man."

He nodded. "Will do, brotha. Don't want to be mistaken for no slob."

They exchanged a look and for a moment he felt like he was seeing someone all to familiar. Someone who never made it into the Army and stayed home in the barrio. Pity flowed through him as the leader turned. "Watch your sixes."

"Thanks, brotha."

And the three were gone with a few furtive backward glances. He didn't waste time in grabbing Face's collar and hauling ass to the car stashed a block over. "Eyes forward, Face, don't go lookin' back."

To his relief Face did as he was told and was silent until they were out of the dying sun and in the black sedan, fumbling with the air. "What the hell was all that?"

He shrugged as he shifted into gear. "Exactly what it looked like, man."

Face watched him carefully, noting the already disappeared accent. "Ok, let me put it this way. I thought I was the scam artist."

He gave the Lieutenant a look at that. "Yeah, but face it man. Your white as they come in that get up. And what are you doin' dressin' like that here? Grow some brains where it counts, man." He put the car into drive. "Besides, no way am I bringin' you back shot up."

The conman just smiled. "Knew you cared, Bosco."

Wonderful. A Murdockism. At least the fool hadn't been with them. That would have been harder to explain. "Yeah, yeah."

And as they drove off and out of what he hoped was their turf, Face asked, "By the way, what did you mean by hen?"

He grinned a bit. "Exactly what you think it means."

The squawking all the way back to the rendezvous point was worth it.


	2. Pilot

Hannibal shaded his eyes and looked up for the eighth time in the past five minutes. They were pinned. Irrevocably and unquestionably pinned on the roof behind the air conditioning units. They had the access door covered, keeping grunts at bay, and the units were providing enough cover from the men who had been smart enough to go for the window in the other building. But how much longer they could hold he didn't know, particularly since ammo was becoming limited and their air support had been due what seemed like hours ago.

There were going to be words spoken about this cavalry Murdock promised.

He glanced at BA, the big man dressed the sharpest he'd ever seen, doing some fancy shooting at the window to send the face visible out of sight. "BA, what have you got left?"

The Corporal only had to feel his belt for clips to know. "Two, and they're goin' fast, Hannibal. Where is that crazy fool? Should have been here with Face five minutes ago, coverin' the door."

True to form, BA didn't know yet, and though they were late and he was annoyed it wouldn't compare to the anger the Corporal would have if he knew they were due for an airlift out. "I don't know, BA. Just keep holding them off while you can."

Another glance to the sky produced nothing and he grit his teeth as he fired off a few well placed shots with his Browning. If BA didn't kill Murdock and Face first, he would, because time was always of the essence for these sorts of things. Part of him had to frown, though, because Murdock usually had fairly good timing and should have been here by now, spouting show tunes from a megaphone or howling over the rotors as Face blasted resistance to kingdom come.

Which meant there was a distinct possibility that something had gone wrong.

Wonderful.

Two more shots caught the hand of an adventurous door shooter and then he was out. One clip left for the Browning and maybe they would be handing over the Italian leather briefcase they'd gone to all this trouble to take. Just as he was reloading however, a familiar sound hit his ears and he had to glance up in relief.

BA glanced up sharply, sweat rolling down into his shirt collar. "That better not be what I think it is."

But it was, only not exactly how Hannibal thought it would be.

For one thing, the chopper was weaving like a drunk bastard. Zig zagging, whining a bit higher pitched than it should be, and nose yawing left and right in short jerky bursts, it looked like something was seriously wrong with the poor bird or, as Hannibal's mind suggested, the pilot. Granted, the gun fire that was expected was delivered, but sloppy was almost too kind when describing it and shock and awe this display definitely was not. Particularly as the chopper rolled suddenly to the right and lost a good several feet of altitude.

"What the hell that crazy fool doin' now?" BA got out before having to go back to spraying the window with bullets. The last thing they needed was more help in the helicopter coming down. Particularly as it looked like Murdock didn't need assistance doing that.

He frowned. "I don't know…"

If Face scammed them a bad ride out, he was taking it out of the Lieutenant's hide the minute this job was over.

The chopper spun in a way that didn't look like it had been planned, bringing sporadic gunfire that at least gave him enough cover to dart across the rising heat of the concrete and over to the door. He caught three grunts by surprise and took out as many in the time it took them to realize the chopper wasn't the real threat. Shame about their faces, but a black eye was better than a blood stain on those expensive suits.

When he reemerged Face had emerged from the chopper and was snaking his way to BA, no doubt with the sedative tucked neatly into his pocket. A fact BA was highly aware of as the Corporal was shouting over the din, "I ain't flyin'!"

Which was ridiculous, as the window was still compromising their position and spraying the area as fast as the gun in the chopper could spray back. There was nothing to be done, however, except grind his teeth and sweep in his last clip from his suit pocket to help cover the conman as sunlight glinted off a discrete needle being uncapped. By the time he reached the two, BA was slumping forward, half gone, and it was times like these that he wished they had a dolly around as the fifth member of the team, solely to help load and unload BA from whatever flying thing there were in that day.

"Nice timing," he did growl out as he took BA's other arm on his shoulder.

Face gave him a harried look, sports jacket disheveled and torn. "We had trouble on our end."

"And what kind of trouble would that have been?" If the word 'skirt', 'hosiery', or 'girl', in any form, came out of that mouth he swore to himself the kid wouldn't make it back to the chopper with his balls.

To his surprise, however, Face just grunted. "Let's move."

The conman started forward and he had no choice but to duck and rely on what was now apparent to be Murdock to cover them from the chopper. There were a few close shaves that would have turned his hair white if Murdock and Face hadn't already done that first, but they made it to the small helo and were pulling open the door to stuff BA into the ammo crowded back seat.

He heard Murdock shout over the rotors, "Heya, Colonel! Sorry 'bout us bein' late! We lost a few of our troops due to unexpected deceleration of our steed, but we're here and ready to charge."

He didn't have time to figure that out, just shoved BA further in and squeezed in by the large man. "Keep that line of fire on the far window, Captain."

"Yes, sir!" And the gun fire started with a short delay.

That had him looking up as he suddenly realized what was wrong with the situation. Murdock was sitting in the passenger seat, fumbling with the gun. There were several things wrong with the scenario.

For starts, it was obvious the normally adept Ranger was having issues firing. The reason was glaringly obvious when he took a more concentrated look: a strip of familiar sports coat was tied around his forehead to stem a cut, slanted over his right eye and unable to hide what appeared to be powder burns around his eye socket and cheek.

It was this that was causing the normally decent Ranger to squint as he fired, hands shaky and dirty with mingled sweat and blood. Whatever had happened hadn't been nice, and had effected Murdock's sight as well as coordination.

A fact painfully obvious when the gun slipped and Murdock cursed, swiping at it with his other hand. "Shit…"

Which brought fact number two into clear clarity: Murdock was in the passenger seat.

That left…

Face got in, shut the door, and slipped on the head set even before he could ask exactly who was driving this thing. "Murdock…"

"Slow up on the collective, Faceman, just like before," Murdock breathed out as gun fire started back up. "Don't let-" The bird was light on the skids, skittering left. "STOP, STOP!"

Face managed to stop and adjust as Murdock tossed a worried glance over his shoulder. The look wasn't helped when Murdock instantly smiled upon realizing Hannibal was watching. Like smiling would hide the fact that the pilot was not actually a pilot of any joystick but the one attached to the man's body. "We'll be up in no time, Bossman."

He cleared his throat but didn't bother responding. The rotors and headsets would prevent him from being heard. Instead he wondered who wasn't the luckier person, Murdock for having an excuse to look shaky or BA, who didn't have to witness it all.

"Now up, gently, don't let her skid around…"

And the bird was up, instantly rocking side to side from gun fire and over controlled movements. At least now he knew why the shock and awe had been less awe and more shock. Particularly as Face stomped on a pedal and sent the bird into a fast spin that had Hannibal deciding right then and there that BA was the lucky one this time around.

"Faceman! Gently! Like a woman, man! Soft, gentle touches or she's goin' to slap you in the face!"

"I'm trying, I'm trying! God damnit!" Because now they're just barely clearing the antenna on the roof.

He closed his eyes and prayed to whatever was out there that a bullet doesn't hit something vital, no matter how tempting being on the ground sounds right now.

By the time they reached their destination, he was sick to his stomach and Murdock looked even paler than before. As Face finally managed to bounce them, roughly, into a landing with Murdock's quiet murmur of instruction, the pilot killed the rotors, the post-flight landing list forgotten on the floor in favor of ridding them of all reminders of the nauseating ride.

"That concludes Faceman Airlines," Murdock heaved in relief as the rotors ground to a wrenching halt. "Please stay in your seats until the rotors stop and all stomachs catch up."

Face shot a wobbly pout at Murdock, hands still tight on the controls. "Aw come on, I didn't do that bad, did I?"

"I wouldn't quit your day job," Murdock said with a shaky smile. "Now if you'll excuse me…"

With that Murdock opened the door, stepped out with grace that was just not fair in an injured man, and proceeded to puke all over the skids. Face rolled his eye, muttering, "It wasn't _that_ bad…"

But he saw the way Face's hands were still tense and the drawn lines in the conman's face even as he opened his own door.

Reaching over the seat, finding his voice and managing to get his legs to unfold from the plastered posture in back, he stopped Face with a hand on his shoulder. "You did good, kid."

Face gave him a wobbly smile that he returned with a soft, if not twitching, one. Maybe not the cavalry he wanted, but it had been enough and that's what counted. His men always pulled through. He didn't wait for a response to the praise, however, because he was stepping out into the hot Sante Fe air as well to join Murdock in purging his stomach of that quality Grand Slam with extra toast he had had that morning.

"Everyone's a critique," Face sighed behind him.

"Who's a what?" came BA from the back.

Grateful or not, he'd let Face handle this one.


	3. Strategist

He really didn't want to die in this suit.

Granted, there were plenty of other reasons why he didn't want to bite the bullet, but the suit was secondhand from the nearest Goodwill and missing two buttons, and he'd always assumed he'd go out with enough dignity to at least warrant all of the fasteners on his clothing. Then again, there wasn't much terribly dignified about kneeling on the concrete of some godforsaken, abandoned toy warehouse (of course it was, what warehouse wasn't abandoned in America?), hands cuffed to a water pipe and blood dribbling down his chin to begin with. All in all, however, he supposed it was an ill-fit outfit for an ill-fit end. At least he matched death.

"You know, with some mood lighting, a nice, neutral color on the walls, a few area rugs, you guys could have a really nice place here." He'd be lying if he said the sarcasm wasn't intended. It was a small solace for having to live a cliché. Especially as this was the ugliest ass warehouse he'd seen - crammed full of plastic toys, board games, and stuffed animals that were straight out of copyright violation hell - and he'd seen a lot in his short life on the run.

The Colonel chimed in. "You're right, Face, they could use a bit of warmth in here. Perhaps some nice beige carpeting. Would be easier on the knees." Which was really Hannibal's way of saying - we're screwed, sass now before you can't.

BA wasn't up for smart alack, however. "I like it how it is, Hannibal. Concrete's better for bustin' heads on."

"Very true. Easier to clean as well," said Hannibal, and he swore he saw a glint in the man's eyes.

"They goin' to be needing to do that when I'm done with 'em."

There was a meaningful look that went with BA's threat, one that had the grunt with the bad mustache standing. He wondered who the hell needed to squint in this light, but lack of superb vision hadn't seemed to hold back this guy from making wonderful life choices, so he couldn't quite bring forth a sarcastic quip. Especially not when the safety was clicked off the man's gun. "You know, two out of three ain't bad for the A-Team. Just as long as boss has one body to pummel."

He had a retort for that, about basic math and counting skills. But Hannibal was settling back, tossing him a look to cool it, so he bit it back to just give a long, probably over dramatic sigh. "All right, all right, let your flooring suffer in silence. Don't come to us though when you have a lawsuit over lack of taste sitting on your superior's desk."

The grunt stared at him, but another equally goonish friend waved him off with a rapid sentence in Spanish. Crisis averted, he turned his attentions elsewhere. If he couldn't take out his annoyances on the goons, then Hannibal it was. The Colonel was staring hard at the four captors, eyes narrowed in that thinking posture that usually included a cigar. Not busy at all. "So, what's the plan, Hannibal?"

"I'm working on it, Face."

"You know, someone once said 'Give me a minute and I'm good'. I'm just saying, it's been at least ten."

"Stop pesterin' him and let him think, man." The look that went with _that_ BA statement was easy to interpret.

He sighed. At least Murdock wasn't here. Then they'd actually be screwed, quite royally too. The only question, however, was if the man would get here in time and be able to get them out. Granted, Murdock was good in the air. Great in the air, in fact. And he had the training to be deadly on the ground. But planning fell to Hannibal or him for the sole fact that they were, well, better at it. Last time Murdock planned an attack, they all had ended the meeting with sock puppets and mustaches and an explanation that the overall point was somewhere between the badassery of 'Tombstone' with the intricacy of 'Ocean's 11'. The puppets were the missing team members, quite obviously. The plan as it stood (ok, not at all really) hadn't made it out of the planning room, but he did have to admit, it was amusing to watch Murdock try to draw an impressive handlebar mustache onto BA's face.

At the very least, they could hope for a rescue, a regroup, and then another planning session to figure out what to do with the big bad drug cartel and how exactly to get the surveillance tapes.

He glanced again at Hannibal. "You think-"

"He'll be here." Hannibal's voice was low and steady, but he saw the worried flick of those grey eyes toward the door leading out to the main floor.

BA grunted, testing the cuffs for the eighth time. "Goin' to kill the fool if he's late cause of some dog again."

Even Face had to grin at that. "Come on, BA, that was that one time."

"Yeah, one time I also got my head shaved by some greenie with a damn shot gun."

"You needed a haircut anyway," added Hannibal, just causing BA to roll his eyes and mutter about god damn barbers and normalcy and how he didn't use knives to clean his nails either, like some silver haired men tended to do.

He wished it was only BA's hair they had to worry about. "So…"

Hannibal glanced at him and said simply, "We wait."

He hated that plan.

Particularly when the door swung open and the goons jumped up as the cause of all this walked in. Tall, well-dressed (lucky bastard) and with an earring that was just this side of tasteless, the man he'd taken to calling Tool-Bag (TB was a nice substitute too) was eyeing them now with a distinctly disgusted look. Which wasn't entirely unreasonable, he supposed, considering they were intent on destroying the man's entire base of operations. As soon as they had gathered evidence, that is.

Which is where it had all gone wrong, really. Damn people and their inconvenient bathroom breaks.

"So this is the A-Team?" Oh god, it was The Speech. "Seems like you've stuck your necks further in than you could handle."

It wasn't even elegant. He hoped Murdock hurried up before he said something stupid about the man's vernacular and limited syntax patterns that were way too similar to Scooby Doo villain-of-the-week.

"You're the one who's gotten in too deep," Hannibal was saying. Which was just the beginning of The Speech version 2.0, that was less about gloating and more about drawing out that smug monologue. Buying time.

TB chuckled. "I hear the United States Army is eager to have you back."

He found himself speaking before he could stop himself. "And I hear Interpol is ready to hold a ball in your honor, so if we're really going to be judging popularity here, I'd have to say your ugly mug is up for Prom Queen this year."

BA was growling, though at him or the man approaching he didn't know. But he did know that suddenly he was being hit, again, right in the jaw, and really how did anyone expect him to do his job if they kept hitting him in his namesake?

"Leave him alone, Lorenzo. Your fight is with me," he heard Hannibal say.

It was enough to get the fist to draw back and allow him time to move his jaw, checking for breaks. He glanced at BA who was watching him, forehead furrowed in reaction to the tension in the room though eyes hinting at concern. He shook his head, he was fine, and wondered if Murdock would decide to join the party anytime soon. Hell, he'd kiss the man solely for saving him from having to stay kneeling like this, in this suit, in this iron smelling room for another five minutes.

A gun safety clicking off brought his attention back around.

"So who will it be, Mr. Smith?"

Ok, perhaps he'd be leaving faster.

"Now wait a minute, we can talk this over..." He glanced at Hannibal even as he leaned back, away from the barrel.

Even now the Colonel was strong - back straight, jaw set, eyes firmly locked on the drug cartel's black. There was no question who was alpha here, or would be if the playing ground was even. The thought made him smile and even now he was responding to that challenge in Hannibal's posture, straightening himself and pulling against the cuffs. He could hear BA doing the same. At least they would die Hannibal's men. Cheap suit and all.

Hannibal's eyes burned. "This isn't over, Lorenzo."

He could almost mime the words as TB said them. "I think it is, Mr. Smith." The gun pointed at him. "Say good-bye to your conman. I owe him one anyway for him and my wife."

"Now really, you don't owe me anything. I was happy to help her have a good time...for once." He grinned - eat-shit, asshole, time to go out with a bang - and just as he started a Hail Mary in his head, an explosion that sound suspiciously like the same amount of semtex they'd been hauling around and two hundred talking dolls went off on the warehouse floor.

Hail Mary, indeed. And baby Jesus, and God, and who ever else decided to make an appearance today.

TB whipped around, his men struggling to get on their feet. One large grunt jerked open the door and stopped, staring at the floor. Face had to crane his neck to see what was going on through the forest of legs. A little RC car sat right outside the door, a good chunk of grey block tied with nylon ties on the back and a little blinking counter rolling down from ten. There was no illusion as to what it was, especially as it forced its way into the room at the shock. Goons dropped weapons and ran, shouting in rapid fire Spanish about pay and life and Jesus Christ and something about horchata, though he may have heard wrong on that. Murdock was better at Spanish than he was.

There was the problem of the fact that the counter kept going, however, nearing three at an alarming rate. He was pressing up against the wall, wondering how little of him would be left if the counter didn't shut off soon, when TB bent down and casually picked up the C4, counter and all. The mans smirked and with a free hand ripped off the counter.

That proved to be all it was. Just a counter. No fuse, no light, nothing. He did have to hand it to Murdock. The man had definitely picked up a flair for the dramatic.

"Clever," TB said before glancing at Hannibal. "Where is your friend, Mr. Smith?"

Hannibal just grinned and looked to the door way.

"Right here."

And there was the man of the hour, covered in powder and fluff and what looked like an eyeball from a teddy bear caught neatly in his hair. Finger paint was spread on the Texan's face and there were a few cuts and scrapes on the man's arms. But it was nothing that prevented Murdock from leveling his M-16 in deadly precision at TB's head.

"Now you have some collector's items I want back, Mr. Mattel Man, and I don't want to have to go lookin' for new editions." The Southern drawl was pronounced, low, and steady, a dark smile on the pilot's face. Matched with Murdock's easy movements into the room, it was a sight to see.

Even if... "Collector's edition? Really? I'm mint in box!"

Murdock almost cracked a smile at that as Hannibal shot him a quick smirk. BA shook his head, the big man's eyes and frown targeted on the C4 however. "Crazy damn fool..."

The pilot's presence caught TB off-guard only for a moment, the thin man straightening, catching the light in that gaudy cubic-zirconium stud. "Shoot and your friend goes too."

Again, the gun was leveled at him, always him. Maybe he should dye his hair mousy brown and put in green contacts. Less attractive must mean less first-time meetings with the business end of .9 millimeters, right?

"I don't think you want to do that," said Murdock slowly, never letting up. "You see, I got a lot more of that pretty grey playdough there, and I ain't afraid to see how high it makes this building go. Teddy bears, Baby Betties, drugs and all." TB's face drew in and that and the pilot smiled. "Cause that's what you do, right? Drugs in dollies, then out into the world where any little, innocent kiddie could get their hands on it."

BA was shaking, growling and sizing up TB exactly like butchers did cows. There were few things that could get BA into a blinding rage, but kids in harm's way was one. What the point of getting BA riled up, however, was beyond him. Particularly as the big guy tended to see red and only red when he got this way.

"Now you can either drop the gun and the C4, or you can find out the hard way that my toy ain't made in China," Murdock was saying, eyes still on TB.

There was a 'that's what she said' joke in there, but he decided now really wasn't the time. Particularly as the pipe was starting to creak. A glance over told him that - with eyes off of them - BA had gotten a chance to start pulling at the weak joint of the pipe...and it was working. All Murdock had to do was keep TB busy. And for him to not say anything to draw attention back to them. Hannibal had also noticed and was shifting quietly, getting ready.

"What have you done with my men?" TB asked, gun still pointed at Face.

"They're diggin' themselves out of the mother-load of action figures. And by the way, Transformers is a copyrighted name. You can't call 'em that unless you pay a really nice, hefty fee to Hasbro." Murdock shifted slightly, finger on the trigger, stepping closer to keep the drug runner's eyes on him. "Now set down the gun and go fish, cause I'm all out of patience."

It was a surprise to them all, however, when TB simply smiled and switched from pointing at Face to aiming at the C4 in his hand. "So am I."

Hannibal shouted, BA roared, the gun fired, and he curled up waiting to die in a nice fiery death, quick and fast. It had been a valiant effort, and he couldn't hold it against Murdock. The man had tried, and while the pilot wouldn't be going to stuffed animal heaven any time soon, well, there was always that Lego Land in the sky to aim for.

Thus, when the pipe ripped out, water soaked through to his expensive socks, and Hannibal began to push on his shoulder, shouting, "Move it, kid!", he wasn't entirely sure if he was in a slow motion explosion type of death or still alive. It was when a bullet sang out and embedded itself above his head that he decided he might as well make the most of whatever time he had left and move, freeing himself of the pipe with an awkward crab shuffle movement that he was personally glad would never be seen outside of this room.

BA had long since broken free, Murdock holding the big guy back from pummeling (or, well, kicking) a dazed and confused TB on the floor. "Easy, big guy, easy there! He's down, no sense in makin' him unrecognizable to the police now!"

The Corporal was still angry, no one could deny that. But with a nudge from Hannibal, BA stepped back, giving TB a look that would have melted concrete. "You lucky my hands ain't free or I'd make sure none of you was recognizable to anyone."

As he stood he saw the C4 on the ground, misshapen but very much in tact. He frowned slightly and poked at it with his foot, groaning when his toes sank in. Murdock hadn't been kidding. It was playdough. "Nice, Murdock..."

Murdock gave him a grin. "Finest fake explosives a six year old could ask for."

BA muttered, rolling his eyes. "You are a six year old, fool..."

Hannibal grinned, amusement clear in his low voice. "Nice job, Captain. The car was a nice touch, though I would have gone with the later model."

Murdock beamed at the praise. "Would have, except was a shame to lose a fine, blue Corvette like that."

"Can't blame ya there, buddy," he added. "King of cars, those are."

This time BA frowned at him. "You ain't serious, are you? Corvettes don't have anything on-"

The Colonel's voice cut through the growing debate. "Do you have a way out of here?"

"Sure do, Bossman." The lopsided grin was decidedly less dark now, but there was a smirk at the corners, Face could tell. "But we've got to make a pit stop first. Or, well..."

At Murdock's trailing pause Hannibal lifted an eyebrow. "Yes?"

There was a brief silence, the sound of screaming and fire framing the moment, before Murdock grinned, taking the permission to heart. "Was goin' to say, you and BA are goin' to be makin' a pit stop at the office. Me and Facey are goin' to go secure our way out of here. If that works for you, sir."

He was surprised at that, because if he didn't know better, that was smoke in the air and the fire alarms would be coming on any second. What could they possibly have left to do right now? "What are you talkin' about, Murdock?"

"You've got my van?" said BA.

Murdock ignored the questions to watch Hannibal, a smile forming on the Colonel's lips. "The security tapes."

Both BA and him shut up at that. They had been working on those when they came in and had been interrupted by a wayward guard. The evidence had long since been purged - they'd seen the tapes taken out themselves and destroyed. So what tapes were even available now?

"They got back ups on file at the main computers in the secondary office. First level, down the hall, third door on the right," Murdock said, shifting his gun. "I...heard a guard talkin' about it. And if there ain't enough evidence on it from earlier, there should be him in the office talkin' to his second. Needed to wait for him to talk it all out before comin' and I figured he wouldn't do anything to you all cause of that first time around..."

"My jaw thanks you," he drawled, rubbing the offended part on his shoulder.

Hannibal cut off any more talk on the subject with a firm, "Where's the rendezvous, Captain?"

"Emergency exit. It'll be on the right when you get out of the office. I need Face to take care of some stragglers so that we can make sure none of these fine citizens make it out to inflict badly made light sabers on anyone ever again. Or cocaine." There was a hint of pride in Murdock's voice, almost indiscernible under the rapid fire explanation of a plan.

But he had to admit, he was impressed and so was Hannibal, as evident by the soft smile the Colonel was giving the man.

"What about weapons?" BA asked, eyeing the single gun in Murdock's hand.

There was a flicker of something in Murdock's eyes that he didn't quite catch. It couldn't be good though, particularly as Murdock said, "Well, they should be in the van..."

BA was oblivious to the twitching in the pilot's knees. "And where's the van?"

"On the main floor..."

"What's that mean, fool?"

"I needed somethin' to get through the door..."

"You drove it through the door?"

Hannibal was trying hard not to snort at BA's expression as Murdock stepped back. "Now BA, I needed a distraction! Besides, I'm sure the gunpowder will come out. Little lemon bit of detergent, some elbow grease, maybe some new upholstery fabric - tan was gettin' kind of old, don't you think?..."

"What did you do to my van?"

Murdock was lucky the handcuffs were on, otherwise he was fairly certain he'd be prying the pilot off the wall at this point. As it was, Murdock had managed to reach the safety of the door frame as BA lunged, stopped only by Hannibal stepping in front of the Corporal. "Now BA..."

"My van! You totaled my van! That's twice, fool! _Twice_! I'm gonna kill you! All the curry in the world ain't gonna save your ass-" Fortunately for his ear drums and Murdock's lanky form, the alarms went off and the sprinkler system came on. He sighed at that. At least he wouldn't have to be the one wading through piles of board games and decapitated stuffed animals.

"Later, BA," said Hannibal, cutting off the rant. "You heard the plan, men. Let's get to it and get out of here before the police come."

A knee popped and he wondered if he wasn't getting to old for this. But they were alive and about to pull off a job that would pay them fifty grand, so he couldn't complain. And if nothing else, the beaming look on his best friend's face at the fact that, yes, a plan of Murdock's was under way and was met with approval, was worth the sore knees. He had to hand it to the pilot for a job pretty damn well thought out. Even if it had proven that Spanish was more useful than French. The man would never let him live this down.

He rolled his shoulders and glanced at Murdock. He owed the man a beer later, and a hug. Or maybe he'd forgo the complaining about the rub marks on his wrists, which, speaking of - he jangled the cuffs. "You have the keys, buddy?"

They all looked expectantly at the pilot.

Murdock just blinked at them, hair already falling into blue-green eyes. "What keys?"

There's always a catch, isn't there?


	4. FoolPityer

"You know, fellas, all I really wanted was the Big Kid's Meal…"

That was mostly true. He really wanted the jet Transformer toy, which came in the meal. But you can't say no to French fries when the opportunity arises. And everyone knows burgers and sodas are the only acceptable side-dishes to French fries. So in the end, it was really the meal that he wanted.

Unfortunately, all he was getting right now was dried ketchup up his nose and a face full of Formica counter top. "Shut up and tell us where he is!"

He sighed. Wasn't there one time someone could ask where he was, or BA, or even the van? The van didn't get nearly enough attention, now that he thought about it. It was always about them. Poor girl – no wonder Bosco spent so much time with her. "Now you're goin' to have to be more specific than that, cause I don't know who you're talkin' about. There's six billion people in the world, and if you consider that about half can claim the usage of the masculine pronoun, then you're still lookin' at-"

Simultaneously the grip on his arms and the fingers in his hair tightened and his face met the counter in a way that made him hope there wasn't a second date. "Fuckin' wise guy; where is Colonel Smith?"

"Again, see, Smith is one of the most common names in the English language, and-"

Another smash. "Colonel John fucking-Hannibal Smith!"

"Ok, now that is more like it!" Pause for dramatic effect, then, "Though I really don't know a Colonel John that is fucking anyone named Hannibal Smith." He wasn't at all surprised when the next crash of his face brought a loud crack with it.

"Last chance, fucker. Where the hell is he?"

He was a lot more concerned about the fact that he was tasting iron than if the thugs found Hannibal. It was enough that he knew where Hannibal was – out in the parking lot, drumming his fingers on the van door no doubt – but they'd find the Colonel soon enough. Or more like Hannibal would sweep in on them, all God of War in blue jeans and James Bond-esque rolled together into a really, really vicious out-of-the-shadows, death from above kind of deal. After all, gun shots, screaming patrons, and panicking employees vacating the premises were fairly indicative that something was going on.

This was also why they couldn't go anywhere nice. Even a trip to the grocery store seemed like it could turn into a battle these days. Granted, at least at the store he had an army of eggplants and canned goods on his side, but what kind of world were they coming to when wanted fugitives couldn't get a burger in peace?

The hand tightened in his hair again, however, so he opened his mouth to let the thoughts rush out. "I don't know, but you can go through the drive through and order one up, medium-rare, extra side of fries. I'd recommend an ice-cold Sprite, though, somethin' light, cause Hannibal comes in on the heavy side-"

At least the ketchup packets thought he was funny, even if his nose laughed so hard at the next slam that it started bleeding.

"What the hell is wrong with this guy?" He couldn't decide if the guy sounded nasally or if he was just far away. "You sure he's part of Smith's gang?"

Again, he sighed, because that question seemed to come up a lot. Like any of these guys could say they didn't want an action figure every now and again too. Sometimes people just needed to lighten up, really. They'd be a lot happier, and have a lot more cool toys that weren't guns pressed into his already sore skull.

"You better believe it."

The grunts turned at that voice, the gun pressing slightly less so into his temple. He grinned into the counter. Some voices needed no visual introduction.

"And you are?" asked one of the goons, another gun appearing from a baggy waistband.

He looked just in time to see Hannibal raise that eyebrow just so. Hannibal Lecture in three, two, one… "A word of advice, boys. Next time you go looking for someone, know what they look like. Now unhand my friend and no one has to get hurt."

The goons glanced at one another before one of them raised a gun.

He'd seen Hannibal take down dictators, drug cartels, bullies, generals, and thugs. He'd seen the Colonel out punch goons, out gun desperados, out stare outlaws, out run athletes, and out shout the cafeteria Sergeant way back in the day. Hannibal had dodged bullets, dodged punches, dodged kicks and insults and even, once, quite memorably, a train. And, if Hannibal tried, he was quite certain that the silver fox himself could probably con the rest of the world into believing he had a plan for everything.

In short, Hannibal Smith was either Chuck Norris or a god. Or both.

There was no man, woman, or child that was safe from Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith. Five goons with guns never stood a chance.

It was with an overwhelming sense of awe that he watched Hannibal move. The Colonel was tall and used every inch of length to his advantage. Ducking the first few bullets and using a trash can as cover, only Hannibal could make flinging dirty take out trays look cool. Or hit the first goon with a perfectly aimed red square.

The goon holding him let go to go help the man down, but it was too late. As soon as he was free he turned on the last armed gunman, grappling to get the gun aiming somewhere besides Hannibal. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a knife drawn, and managed to shout, "Hannibal!" before a blow to the head (again) saw little salt packets swirling around his head. And people wondered why he was unstable.

But the Boss saw the knife – he always saw everything – and with frightening precision was on the last three men with a ferocity that could have come from any of the canine family. A hard upper cut here, a bend and grab here that saw a good flying across tables, a well placed kick to the chest that sent another grunt over the counter and thudding against the shake machine. It was White Lightning that was hitting with such deadly accuracy, striking hard and fast and leaving goons sprawled across the floor, the soda machine dispenser, and the counter top. By the time he had managed to twist the goon's arms behind his back and pressure pinch the gun out of his hand, the restaurant was filled with a lot less threats and shouting and a lot more groaning and heavy breathing.

Looking up as he forced the kid to his knees he could only grin at the Colonel. "Now that's what I call fast service, Hannibal."

There was a flicker of a smirk on the older man's face, but it was over taken by the stern reprimand that came next. "Care to report what happened, Captain?"

Oh, right. "Well, I was just standin' by the iced tea, mindin' my own business, waitin' for order number 7 - which you would think would be lucky, but apparently not so much today - and then I hear this gun go off and a hand reach around and grab me like this-" He demonstrated just how on the grunt in his hands, ignoring the sharp cry of unexpected pain as an arm was pulled back. "Next thing I know I'm throwin' an upper one-two combo, except 'one' was my left hand and 'two' was my right foot right onto the instep, and man you should have heard that guy shriek, Hannibal! It was like that one time with the pool and the lobster, and-"

Hannibal was giving him a look that clearly indicated that he was rambling or was about to bring up the event-that-shall-not-be-named-on-that-one-Vegas-trip, so he cleared his throat. "Got pinned, put a gun to my head, and started askin' questions, Boss."

The Colonel nodded, surveying the damage. "Right." Then, fast as lightning, Hannibal grabbed the shirt collar of the grunt Murdock had and all but lifted the kid up to his feet. "Who sent you, kid?"

For a brief moment he thought the kid was going to be stupid enough to do something, well, stupid. "I'd tell the nice man if I were you. He doesn't like it when his order's messed up."

One look at Hannibal's fist, curled so neatly in plain sight, had the grunt swallowing, eyebrow piercing twitching in fear. "S-Sebastian Longmore."

It was answer enough, even if he did have to bite back a quip about if life really was better under the sea and behind bars. Hannibal stared down the kid, the look sending shivers up Murdock's spine at the fact that so much power could be held in one glare. BA would be proud. "You tell that bastard that if he goes after my men or me again I will personally make sure that his sentence is longer than the two he has already. Got it? And if I see your asses around again, I'll make sure you join him."

By then the kid was nodding like a bobble head, the effect only heightened when Hannibal let go and the grunt's knees buckled. Kicking the gun under a far table, Hannibal glanced at him as the sound of sirens whined in the air. "That's our cue, Murdock."

He nodded, letting go of the kid with one final glare of his own. "And that's why you don't get in between the A-Team and fast food."

Which reminded him…

Hannibal turned, side door open, a slight frown on his face as he barked, "Captain!"

"Coming, coming!" He grabbed the cardboard meal from the counter, ignoring an "oof!" from a goon as he leaned over him, before darting after the Colonel.

Like hell he was going to leave it after all this!

The Colonel rolled his eyes but didn't say anything until they were in the car and speeding away. "This, Murdock, is why we don't eat out."

"Not like I wore a sign begging to be jumped, Colonel," he shrugged, tearing open the box. "That's my other shirt. The one with the big bulls-eye on the back and block lettering that says 'Howlin' Mad Murdock, Member of the A-Team, Jump When Seen.'"

Hannibal glanced over at him with a serious expression in his eyes that he knew well from those missions. Usually missions where one or more of them managed to make a FUBAR of the whole thing and almost wipe the team off the planet. The look always made him squirm and his stomach double over.

"Just wanted a burger, Hannibal." And even saying it out loud, with that look, it felt like too much to ask.

But just like that the look disappeared and a softer, sympathetic expression replaced it. A hand ghosting his bloody chin. "Are you all right?" And just like that, all was forgiven.

He waved off the hand, wiping his face off with the back of his shirt sleeve (or, well, Face's – oops). "Aww, they didn't do anythin' that a Ranger can't take. And I'm a Ranger, baby! Full-blooded, or, well, four-fifths at this rate."

With that he dived back into the box as Hannibal chuckled and hit the accelerator. Past the wonder of beef patty and crispy fries to the plastic packaging at the bottom. The thing that would make a swollen nose and Ellen Greene voice worth it tomorrow morning.

"Hannibal!"

He almost flew out of his seat the Colonel hit the brakes so fast.

"They gave me the wrong order!"

He was definitely having Face take him next time, because he was fairly certain he'd never survive another look like that. 


	5. Comforter

There were a lot of things BA Baracus was good at.

He could box a bit, he could fight, he could change oil, tighten engines, and make a car purr like it was the biggest fucking cat you'd ever seen. He had a way with kids, or so his mama used to say, and even more of a way with his fists.

Intimidating and rage were easy for him. Expressing through physical contact – as long as it involves bones breaking or skin bruising – are things he can do.

But this…

This was not something on his list.

It's true that he loves each man like a brother, would kill to see all three safely back, hell, has killed in protection of the only semblance of a true family he's had in the past few years. But while he can rage and fight and beat up external threats without a secondary blink of his eyes, he has trouble dealing when it's internal threats that shake them apart.

Particularly with the man currently huddled on the couch, eyes wide and staring at him over clutched knees with thatlook that he can't handle.

A sigh escaped him as he stepped over the broken glass - the instigator of all this. "Murdock..."

The pilot's eyes only widened more and he paused to hold up his hands in attempt to placate the inner demons of the shaking Southerner. "Look, I ain't gonna hurt you, man. Just…"

Murdock didn't speak; he rarely did when in the middle of one of these fits. Instead, his wide blue-green eyes shifted back to the phantoms he was seeing. With his loss of concentration came the rocking, the warning sign that the pilot was no longer there, and BA ran a hand through his Mohawk as muttering began to snake into the air.

It didn't matter what language Murdock's words were in, he was still lost on what to do, what to say. This was usually Face's job. The conman was the one that drew out the Murdock they knew, who held the man when he was clawing or shaking or screaming. Hell, even Hannibal had a way with the pilot, calming the man down with his low brogue and abating the feral, faraway looks that came into those blue-green eyes. But neither man was here, both out to meet a client on a case they desperately needed unless they wanted to live out of his van and on ramen for the rest of their lives. That left him, the might, the strength, and the muscle to deal with the veritable porcelain man that Murdock became in these moments.

He had no clue how to comfort the man, how to even put together the shards into someone that could function. He wasn't good at comfort to begin with, much the less with the kind that couldn't be done with a box of tissues or a bowl of his mama's chicken soup left surreptitiously by the bed side.

Yet as Murdock began to whine, low and keening, he sighed and moved over to the couch, crouching next to that lurid Hawaiian shirted fool. "Hey…" He laid a hand on a thin shoulder. "It ain't real, man."

Murdock shook his head, but BA wasn't convinced it was in response to anything he had done as he caught what the words were. "Not my fault, not my fault, not my fault…"

There was no punch, no tactic, no tool to make this better. Sometimes he wondered if, really, the man did belong in a facility somewhere. If scamming pharmaceuticals just wasn't enough and if they were hindering the pilot by allowing him to stay. Wouldn't he be making more progress with people who knew how to work him through this?

He just didn't know.

All he did know was to do what Face and Hannibal did when this scenario played out. Sit on the couch, gather up the pilot, and hold him close. So that's what he did, feeling the couch bend under his weight and the pilot tremble as he held Murdock close to his chest uncomfortably. What was it that Faceman whispered to the lanky Texan as he held him? He wasn't sure, but he figured Murdock would appreciate the effort over the accuracy.

"Ain't real little brotha. You're here now, so get your crazy ass, fool mind together and come back, all right?" It must be something like that, yeah.

He wished he were stronger, wished he didn't feel like he weren't doing a damn thing, wished he had some of those comic book powers Murdock babbled on about. Maybe one would let him fight the demons into oblivion, or heal the cracks.

Instead, he relied on clumsy words and an awkward hand rubbing the pilot's shoulder to do the task he had no experience and no qualifications to do. "Ain't nothin' your fault, fool. Ain't nothing you did wrong."

On it went, a cycle of trying to, what did Face always say? Anchor Murdock. And after an impossibly long time the pilot's breath slowed and those thin shoulders untensed a bit. "BA?"

"Yeah, it's me, crazy." He found that he had to lick his lips, dry from the mutterings. "You all right?"

"Think so…" Murdock swallowed, head bowed now and hands unlocking to let his legs stretch out. "How long?"

"About ten minutes, maybe fifteen." He wasn't sure how long they'd been there anymore.

Murdock just gave a soft hum of acknowledgement and BA started to pull away, suddenly conscious of his arm around Murdock's chest and hand on the pilot's shoulder. To his surprise, though, as he moved to stand, there was a pair of blue-green eyes, watching him sadly. "BA?"

"Yeah?" He froze at the look. The scared puppy look that he'd seen used only in teasing. Except this time, there was no personality to go with, no feigned fear of spiders or Face's cologne or whatever slime monster had run under the cupboards that day. This time, there was only a white-knuckled grip on the pilot's jeans and an almost imperceptible shake to the man's frame.

"Never mind," Murdock mumbled at his look, eyes going back to the floral printed sofa. "Thanks, big guy."

But he knew there was more. "Spit it out, fool." At the frown on Murdock's face he sighed and managed to take some of the bite out. "What, man? Come on, I ain't goin' to bite."

Murdock didn't seem convinced by that statement, but those big eyes did flicker back to him for a whole half second. "Was just wonderin'…"

"Well?" He hoped that didn't sound too gruff, but he was lost here. He didn't have Face's Murdock-mind-reading skills or Hannibal's intuition. The pilot was going to have to help him out.

"Was just hopin' you'd stay a bit longer." It's quiet, shy, muttered into knees that were now back at Murdock's chest, shaggy brown head lowering once more.

There was a long stretch of silence at that as he shifted uncomfortably. It's one thing to hold a half-mad man in your arms until their mind clears. You can argue it's for safety, or practical, or just the right thing to do. But to hold a fully-conscious, all-there man? It bordered on something he didn't want to think about, something he wasn't.

Yet this is Murdock, his family, and though he won't admit it outright often, his brother. So he stopped himself from the automatic, gruffed out 'no' and instead took a deep breath through his nose. Silently he sat and drew Murdock in with a strong arm, letting the pilot settle into his shoulder.

Murdock's untensing hands were more than enough thanks for him. Though when a quiet, "Thanks, Bosco" drifted up, he did tighten his grip on that bony shoulder just slightly.

A few minutes wouldn't hurt anyone.

And maybe, just maybe, it would actually help. 


	6. And the One Who Didnt Change  Mostly

No other member has been more things than her.

When they needed a plan, she helped them plan, spreading herself out and allowing things to be moved so that they could sit around the folded down section and hover over maps, schematics, and hand drawn plans. At one point there had even been a white board, a useful tool until the male anatomy art contest was begun in permanent marker.

If it was power they needed, well, she provided that too. A battery, a battering ram, a tank, a fortress, a last stand, a point man in, even a boat, a raft, and that one unfortunate time a submarine. Whatever it was, if it had guns and armor, she'd probably helped at one time or another. She still had stuffed animals stuck in her grill from that last mission.

Flying wasn't particularly her strong suit, but no one could take away the title of "Most Bridges Jumped" besides, perhaps, Evel Knievel. And everyone knew using a motorcycle was cheating.

But her duties didn't stop there. If they needed a hospital the knew where the I.V. and glucose bags were – right next to the needle and thread, waiting to return the favor of a lightning bolt to a certain someone. She'd been an ambulance, when the hospital kit had been dumped in an accidental packing job; a hearse, to transport that coffin with those guns for that one job in Columbia; a gun shop, with more choices of hand gun than the local Wal-Mart; a locker, a home, a hotel, a mattress, and even that one time she had been a zoo, not that those stains had come out anytime soon.

Whatever she was however, it was ok. It was her job to be versatile, so that's what she was.

Besides there was always unconditional love waiting for her, no matter the occasion. Always a pair of hands caressing her hood, murmuring things to her engine when they thought no one was looking, and even a nuzzle or two on occasion when the sheets were pulled out an camping became necessary. It was the quiet times where there was nothing but new parts or a tight wrench making things just so that had her purring. Really, it wasn't a bad life at all.

Which was why, as her wheels left the pier and the Pacific Ocean loomed up fast to the tune of a screamed, "MURDOCK! I'M GONNA KILL YOU!" she wasn't particularly alarmed. She'd done this before, had done everything, been everything, by this point in time.

All she could do was sigh and spin her wheels and think: _Oh no, not again._


End file.
